


Mild Fracture Issues

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [115]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Dysfunctional relations but everyone's doing their best, Found Family Dynamics, Gen, Injury, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29424330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: The simplest explanation is that, sometimes? People don't hate you as much as you think.
Series: DS Extras [115]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	Mild Fracture Issues

**Author's Note:**

> ...that one quote about fractured femurs started this.

Beefalo are known to be notoriously overlarge, unsightly, and frankly too clumsy beasts. They were also quite smelly.

And, while those bulging brown and white eyes, the deceptively droopy face and empty headed meandering around could be misinterpreted as them being such passive creatures, a rowdy herd of stinking bull chimeras was a place one did not want to be in the middle of.

Right now, with the summer sun at its cusp and sweating heavily under a thick beefalo fur sewn cloak, horns included atop the hood, Maxwell was having a not so fun time being jostled about in the center of some very irritable, very hot, and very fly coated cows.

The baying of the hounds had evened out into guttural snarls, high yips and the snapping of massive, powerful jaws. Every once in awhile, as the former Nightmare King tried to keep his footing in the herds continual, chaotic shifting and shoving about, a dark pelt would slip through, nipping and gaping drooling maws as the canines tried their damndest to get at him before being crushed by a very irritable, just as slobbery buffalo monstrosity.

Maxwell had never been very knowledgeable on the behavior of these creatures, not even when he had first created them; a dash of imagination, dreams and what he could remember from his brief, far away encounters, looking through the train windows as the dry, hot grasslands blazed by.

This world, as it evened out under the Queens reign, has settled the beasts down into a natural rhythm he had little knowledge of. Obviously he had known that there had to be some sort of breeding season, had to make sure the numbers kept even enough, had to make sure such passive creatures could turn on the pawns with little warning, but nowadays the beefalo were...quite obnoxious.

The bellowing he had more familiarity with, the same with the massive creatures raising to their back legs and kicking out their hooves, bowed spine not quite allowing a full rise but enough to be impressive. 

It was the slobbering, tongue wagging and head locking that was becoming a bit new.

Maxwell stumbled back against one of the beasts sides as a large bull shoved past him, almost crushing his feet with its hooves as it tangled its horns and bashed its head against another of its kind. The stink of it, sweat and fur and the baking heat of the sun, mixed foul with musk and urine and dung, a sharp curdling stench that only got worse as the hounds grew more excited, more daring in their snapping bites that continually tried to reach him.

The stench of the wolf corpses were already attracting more than the usual amount of flies.

Every once in a while Maxwell would hear a yell, a loud shout outside the crowd of randy bulls; the shouts of the others as they tangled spears with the hounds who got tired of nipping beefalo heels. A very distinct trumpet of a shout, "Go for its eyes, Webber!", at least told him that the fighting out there wasn't going badly, and the old man wondered, as another bull shoved past him with a snorting huff, lolling its tongue out and bellow loud enough to make him wince, if he should have just taken his chances out there instead.

The old cloak had been a risk, the furry beasts might not have been tolerant of it since it was fraying and near falling apart, but at the end of the day, as Maxwell practically toppled backwards as a hounds maw snapped up at him, the dog struggling out from under a beefalos unaware belly, he supposed it was better than him trying to handle a spear out in this heat.

The feral animals blood spattered near everywhere when the beefalo noticed it, a heavy stomp cracking the hounds skull and caving it in with one movement, and the bull snorted as it kicked its hooves, tossing the still twitching corse away from itself and into another beefalo.

Which then caused a chain reaction, the new bull bellowing in offense, swinging its head and grand horns around as it stomped the dry earth.

Maxwell curled his lip as the hound's body got even more trampled, what a disgusting sight, before both bulls charged forward and slammed together, locking horns and roaring at each other all the while.

As they tussled, bashing into nearby beefalo and causing a ruckus of snorts and loud calls, Maxwell quickly turned himself from the scene and started to make an attempt at slipping away from the herd. The hounds were bad enough, snapping jaws and bone breaking aggression, but getting caught between two beefalo in near full rut was far worse to his mind.

Not to mention he'd like to get out of here before something ended up pissing on him, the stench of their marking and dung was godawful in this summer heat. His shoes were already well beyond saving, he was very sure of that!

Any sign of the hounds or the louder spear fighting outside the herd was drowned out by the beefalo as each beast started to get more excited, more aggressive and loud. As Maxwell leaned back against one of the creatures, narrowly avoiding a set of horns as they charged past and tangled into a waiting set, loud obnoxious calls filling the air and the summer sun bearing down with little reprieve, the buzzing flies and stink of the entire herd, at this point the former Nightmare King was ready to deal with his blasted biting creations over the smelly rough housing cows.

Just as that decision solidified into his head, already pushing against a beefalos broad side as he shimmied between two of them, the stink of them no doubt ingrained into his suit by now, the cloak caught and jerked him back with a frustrated hiss.

Unfortunately, that also caused the horns set atop the fabric to tilt downwards, and ram themselves into the beefalo he was trying to pass by.

It happened too quickly for Maxwell to even catch up to - the deep roaring bellows as both beasts startled, the herd joining in their chaotic chorus, the air knocked out of him as they bucked at each other, great hooves slamming into the opposite beefalos ribcage, narrowly avoiding crushing his own chest as it swung its head around, flinging saliva in its rage-

The other one reacted just as violently, shoved him forward and then near flinging him as it swung around, thick neck pushing him to the side as Maxwell flailed for balance, a curse already under his breath as he wheezed back in air from near being crushed between the two-

And then the other charged, a half step hop as it brought its head up high then down, smashing into the beefalo Maxwell was still trying to back away from, and with that they both jerked to one side, then the other, and with flailing hooves and angry roars both massive beasts rounded around in one messy move.

Maxwell, only briefly, recognized that he was in a bad spot a second too late.

It came in flashes, realizing he had been caught by locked horns, sharp dull pain as they bashed against him, then he was airborne, stinking hot air left in a foul swirl of gusted dry wind.

When the earth came back up to meet him it knocked the air from his lungs, the thoughts from his head, pain as he slammed down against dirt and savanna grass, then suddenly fur and thick set legs and **hooves-!**

Maxwell wouldn't remember the kick from that one, only gasping for hot heavy air, curling in on himself as he struggled, in some instinctive way, to get to a stand, he couldn't go down while still within the _herd-_

Before there was bellowing above him, snorting roars, the ground pounded by heavy hoofed feet, shaking underneath him, and then a dizzy, suffocating, _blinding_ pain took him out.

***

"...careful, don't want…"

"...would been better had…"

"...can't, that's too close..."

"...slow down, don't want to make him worse…"

Words vaguely floated through the ringing air above him, shifting movement that only faintly graced him, touch and handling, and Maxwell blurrily squinted open his eyes.

The pale sky rose up above him, marked by only a few trace clouds, and the old former Nightmare King dizzily narrowed his eyes at the sight.

Before there was a shifting, trip up that had the hands on him tighten and tug, and that sent a shuddering lace of _pain_ to shock through him in a dizzy swell that fizzled his vision in an ugly smear and near knocked him back out.

"Careful Wolfgang, don't want to drop him again."

"Sorry, little man, sorry."

Maxwells jaw was grit tight, hissing in wheezed air as the pain lapped through him, piercing shocks of it that slowly leveled out, not quite gone, not quite ignorable, and when he squinted his eyes open once more it was to a sight of various white, blinking in sync eyes.

"Mister Maxwell's awake!" The shrill voice made him flinch, ringing in his head in a way that mixed with the constant pain horribly, and Webber whistled in his face, spidery limbs twitching and stretching out as they bounced up and down by his side. "Are you okay Mister Maxwell? That fall looked like it hurt a lot!"

"Webber, not right now, give him some space." The spidery face was nudged away, clawed hands in his blurry vision as Maxwell sucked in a gasp of air and tried to stabilize, and the swaying movement suddenly halted. "Let's stop here, Wolfgang."

Being put down wasn't at all a pleasant experience, pain shocking up his spine and tangling with his tongue, his thoughts as Maxwell wheezed, but vaguely he recognized the other man as his back was settled up against a tree. 

Webber hovered close, twittering and blinking all their eyes in sync as they watched, and the strongman had settled down as well with a huff, swinging around a pack.

"Have some jerky, spider child. Is a good time for break."

Maxwell watched as Webber nodded their head, but trying to follow their path made him dizzy, a deep pain that had him close his eyes as his sense of balance swayed sickeningly back and forth. When he opened his eyes again, jaw grit tight enough to hurt and every breath wheezed with bruised pain, it was Wilson who was kneeled before him, scowl drawn face tense and focused.

There were hands on him, dull claws that carefully adjusted his legs, and for a fleeting moment panic shot through him and Maxwell shuddered, gloved claws pushing into the dry earth and scraping the trees roots as he tried to sit up-

But he definitely felt his legs, pain shooting through one at his movement, enhanced as he wheezed out a hiss and Wilson pushed him back against the tree with a frustrated huff.

"Well, that tells me you've not lost your legs." 

There was agitation there, a shake of his head, and Maxwell cracked open his eyes once more, trying to ignore the discomfort of those bone clawed palms pressing to his shaking knees. The heat of the air was offset by the trees shade, though the other man was visibly sweaty, dirt and dust smeared on his skin, his scruffy almost beard making his rugged appearance even more so now. 

The dried hound blood, splattered purple and foul lavender, compounded on that fact, and it got Maxwell to swallow thickly, dry throat making his voice hoarse as he spat up a few words.

"The...the hounds-"

"Were taken care of. It was a small pack, I don't think we even needed to involve the beefalo." The man's face fell into an even harsher scowl as one of his searching hands brushed up against the old man's left leg, causing a sharp inhaling hiss and tremor. A passing touch under the suit jacket didn't even get him the normal stink eye response, only a tense wheeze, and there was no blood on his claws when he drew back but there was obvious pain and damage. "...You should've stayed with us."

Maxwell was able to pull a sneer at him, shivering now even in this heat, the pain pulsing in a way he couldn't quite withstand, only barely hanging on, and he watched as Wilson pulled away, face still narrowed in a firm look of concentration, deep thought.

"We're almost to camp, I'll figure out what to do with you then. Wolfgang, you ready?"

The strongman looked up, Webber chittering from where they both had been apparently sorting out still bloodied hound teeth, and quickly shoved one more jerky into his mouth before scooping the fangs back into his pack and standing up.

"Of course! We get frail man back to camp, fix him?"

"...I'll do my best."

That was more of a sigh, really, and it was enough to pierce through the pain, enough to make Maxwell huff out a hiss of offense, almost wrangle back enough air for his words, a few choice curses on the tip of his tongue-

"Mister Wilson will fix Mister Maxwell, Mister Wolfgang!" Webber chittered up a storm, high pitched whistling, and their trust in the man was boundless as they hopped over to Maxwell's side. "Right, Mister Maxwell? You'll feel better really soon, we're sure of it!"

That deflated the old man's more bitter irritation real quick, something Wilson seemed to take notice of judging from the rough chuckle that left him, and Maxwell chose to shut his eyes, bare his teeth in a light snarl as both men went about picking him up. 

Wilson thankfully got a hold of his weak, trembling arms, helped fold them in his lap while Maxwell glared at him, but the old man had to focus more on getting air into his lungs, the wheezing drawing him a bit thin and light headed.

Wolfgang tried to be gentle, careful as he bundled the man up in his arms, and Wilson took care of his long legs, making adjustments to not twist or pull too much as they started off.

Webber bounced around their little group, multiple eyes flicking around every which way as their fur puffed up, sticky with hound blood and savanna dust. Their little whistles seemed to help bolster everyone's step, and Maxwell glowered as he was carried so haphazardly around, like a sack of potatoes held between the two.

He supposed, letting his eyes close and focusing on his breathing, not the constant throbbing heavy tides of pain, that it at least beat walking in this heat.

***

He had fallen into a doze by the time the group reached camp, the heat floating thick in the air and the sun unstopping in its summer crusade. At some point Webber had dug out a thermal stone from Wolfgang's pack and carefully put it in Maxwell's arms, twittering spidery sound as they told him he probably needed it more than anyone else.

It still had a hint of chill on it then, but by now Maxwell could feel the horrid lump of stone and its growing heat, warmed from the very air itself. It didn't help his half sleep, not with the pulsing waves of pain that kept crawling up his leg, through his hip and up his spine in throbbing, somehow endless shocks, but he dizzily recognized that Webber had been trying to be helpful.

The spider child looked quite frazzled when they finally passed the gates, sticky fur puffed up in staticy clumps, but any exhaustion they seemed to have disappeared the instant they caught sight of the endothermic fire, bounding to it with a few sharp, happy chirps. Wolfgang adjusted him none too gently, though it was apparent he was trying, the strongman was sweating up a storm and somehow stank worse than that entire herd of beefalo, but Maxwell was feeling far too light headed and hounded by pain to put up any sort of fuss.

And, as his dizzy, sluggish mind decided, it wouldn't end in his favor if he started complaining about the man who was lugging him around. From how serious Wilson looked, keeping a hold of his legs in a way that tilted them slightly upwards, he may not have broken his spine but it was for sure a fairly bad injury.

Well, at least he could appreciate that he wasn't bleeding out. That was always a gruesome, deeply uncomfortable venture.

"And what, may I ask, did you four do to end up like this?" Wickerbottom's voice was clipped, a sharp tone as she carefully stood herself up. The heat hadn't left the old woman unscathed, sweat on her brow and looking far more wilted than usual, but the firepit behind her gave a gusty cool air that helped offset the summer sun at the very least. Webber chittered anxiously opposite her, holding their spider paws up to the blue fires flames, but it was Wilson who gave her an answer.

"Had a run in with some hounds earlier, a small hunting pack." He helped Wolfgang set Maxwell down, the old man at least grateful for the cool billowing air as his back went up against one of the log benches, before turning back to answer to the old librarians stern, displeased stare."We were nearby one of the beefalo herds, and Maxwell suggested we use them as bait."

Wickerbottom folded her arms, raised her eyebrow as she turned a withering look down at the former Nightmare King, and Wilson shifted side to side, looking uncomfortable as he scratched the back of his head.

"...it didn't go well."

"Yes, I can see that. I do believe it was common knowledge that the bovine were in heat for these next few days?"

"Well, yes, but Maxwell had a cloak with horns-"

"At the time...it seemed...like a good..idea." His words came up with a whistle to them, a strain in his chest and pain lacing up and through his lungs, but Maxwell still turned a pain narrowed glare up at the old woman. "I was..fine..in the beginning."

"And yet now you sit before me with some very obvious injuries." She shook her head, and while both Wolfgang and Wilson had some unexplainable looks of guilt as she glanced at them most of the judgement was leveled onto Maxwell himself. "I would have hoped you knew your beasts well enough by now to avoid such an issue."

Maxwell opened his mouth, a snarl on his lips and a rattle in his lungs, but before he could start snapping about how _his beasts_ were not really _his_ any longer the old woman knelt by his side and gently helped sit him up a bit straighter.

"You can move, can't you? I should hope you didn't paralyze yourself."

"I checked him on the way here, he's moving fine so far."

Wilson had snuck up on his other side, and Maxwell made a point by using his own arms, weak and trembling as they felt, to brush off the offered helping hands. The glower he gave them was easily ignored, and the old man hissed in a breath for a snarl when Wickerbottom started to ease off his suit jacket.

"It will help with the heat, dear, don't make this harder for yourself."

"I need to check his ribs, he's been having some respiratory distress since the beefalo got him."

"I do not see blood, so I assume there is a fair bit of bruising and blunt trauma. You should be grateful you didn't get gored, Mr. Carter. If you had the cloak what in the world had set them off on you?"

"Will...you _please_ -" Maxwell hissed, breathes going shallow as he slapped their 'helping' hands away, "- _keep_ your hands to...yourself!"

He tried to move, perhaps scoot away from the both of them, light headed and dizzy, but the instant he put even a thought of weight to his left leg pain shocked right through him, agony that had him tense up with a strangled choked sound, eyes squeezing shut and teeth bared as he fought the sudden roiling urge to be sick.

That seemed to startle even Webber, over by the fire and helping the strongman sort out the useful hound teeth from the useless rotted ones, and their chittering made Wolfgang speak up, a thick confused worry in his voice.

"If frail man not feel good, maybe take to tent? Something wrong with his leg, saw that earlier with small man."

"I think there's a break." Wilson explained as Wickerbottom gave him a firm look, and Maxwell kept his eyes closed, hissing in air and fighting the tempting urge to give into the fantasy of strangling the lot of them, manhandling him around like this and poking and prodding and-

"When we found him it didn't look bad, but he couldn't walk and he was really out of it before he passed out. After that Webber suggested we just carry him back to camp."

"Mhm! It would take forever if Mister Maxwell had to walk!"

Webbers churring response seemed to be enough to get those prodding hands to stop, at least enough for Maxwell to suck in air and dizzily curse the bruising pain of his chest, and then once again he was being picked up, ground out from underneath him as Wilson pulled him up.

"Can you get his legs, I don't want to make anything worse-"

"Wolfgang help, do not worry!"

When Maxwell squinted his eyes open, his sense of balance finally adjusting a bit as the strongman's arms lifted him once more, the old librarian was giving him a somewhat sympathetic look. The heated air, billowing with the endothermic pits flame current, had made her gray hair static up in frazzled tangles, and Wilson's still dirited hair somehow looking worse than usual as he swiped a hand over his face.

"Take him to the med tent, Wolfgang. I'll get a few thermal stones from the ice box, hopefully that'll be enough to keep the tent cool."

The strongman nodded, Maxwell glowering an awful sneer at them all as he was lugged along, Wickerbottom keeping a firm grip to his legs as she helped carry him, and even as he puffed and huffed and made it _very_ clear he was entirely unamused at their offered 'help'-

The former Nightmare King did have to fight off a dizzying moment, as he was ducked into the dark, somewhat cooler tent, where something similar enough to _gratitude_ almost snuck its way into his chest.

If a bit of nauseating confusion and vague fear panic rooted underneath as well, Maxwell grit his jaw and shoved it all back and away. He very much did not want to feel such things, not with the dull ache all about his chest and the piercing sharp shocks of agony that kept reaching from his leg and jolting his nerves with each movement, and as such squeezed shut his eyes for a brief moment and wrangled back the more bitter agitation and offense instead.

That would do him far better off, Maxwell believed, and when he opened his eyes again as Wolfgang set him gently down atop the crooked cot his glare was mean enough to kill.

Unfortunately for the former Nightmare King, his "acquaintances" very easily shrugged it off and got to work fixing him up. He muttered complaints and curses the entire time, and yet the odd lack of blunt hostilities he was more accustomed to, and expecting, made Maxwell despondent enough that things went quite smoothly.

This did not get unnoticed by the others, but they thankfully did not bother him about it; Maxwell allowed the appreciation for that, at the very least, to grace him.

***

For all of his, mostly unwilling, familiarity in treating injuries, Maxwell was not particularly keen with letting others take charge of handling him. It had only been the constant background pain and shortness of breath that had allowed the old woman to get his suit jacket off him; under lantern light and the stuffy, only slightly cooled air of the thus designated "medical" tent, the former Nightmare King had been rather...stubborn.

And he certainly wouldn't apologize for it, no matter how nasty and snappish his tone had gotten, and definitely not the frustrated scowling he was currently having to deal with.

The end result had, at least, leaned in his favor - Wickerbottom and Wolfgang had exited the tent, the later quite quickly the moment he had started making some rather...unkind remarks.

The former, however, had surprised him; Wickerbottom had snorted at his stubbornness, shaken her head, but had only handed off some things to Wilson with a few words of instruction in case he didn't know what to do.

Which was highly unlikely, Maxwell had glowered at her in silence at that, as if the man who had survived near everything the Constant had thrown at him _wouldn't_ know how to treat an injury, but then she had turned to him and there had only been a sympathetic smile as she bid him a swift recovery.

It felt...unusual, her easy surrender as she exited the tent without some backhanded comment or other, but Wilson thankfully didn't bother him about his sullen attitude as he went about getting Maxwell to take off his undershirt and other garments. 

The paused silence afterwards took his mind off the unsettling feeling of being understood, and Maxwell grit his jaw at the pain that was still nagging up his hip and leg, swallowed down the ache of each wheezing breath, and instead turned a dark eyed glare at the other man and the expression forming there that he recognized all too well.

"Don't you… _dare_ -"

"Say pal," Wilson started, and the lopsided grin on his face looked a bit strained, forced, but even as he carefully prodded Maxwell into straightening up he still tried to lighten the mood, "You don't look so good."

" _Higgsbury_." Maxwell snapped at him, and he would've shoved those dull clawed hands away from examining him but was currently trying to both maintain his balance and keep taking shallow, somewhat strained breaths, his own shadow drenched talons, still gloved, clawing into the cots thin patchwork fabric.

"Carter." Wilson answered back, though his tone was considerably less dark than the old man's. "Those beefalo did a number on you. I agree with Wickerbottom, you should be grateful you didn't get gored."

"I...don't exactly-" His words caught in a hiss, eyes squeezing shut as those dull claws dragged lightly about his back, then around to his ribs, and even under faint lantern light the dark, ugly bruising was very evident. 

Wilson thankfully didn't apply any pressure, just turned away to grab the set aside jars, and when those claws came back, cold and pasted with the sharp foul smell of tillweed salve, he did at least give Maxwell a moment as he flinched from the unpleasant feeling.

Weeds it may have come from, but even Maxwell couldn't discount that the slight cold burn of the paste did in fact help ease the trouble he was having in taking in air.

As he squared his shoulders, grit his teeth and ignored the shooting spear shocks of pain from his leg, the dull ache of his chest and general displeasure in being exposed around another, even _if_ it was just Wilson, Maxwell shut his eyes and elected to stay silent and endure.

Wilson, however, was not nearly as comfortable with the shivery silence, or at the very least did not care enough to let it be.

"You've bruised up your ribs, that's why it hurts to breath." Wilson's dull claws made him shiver, the unpleasant chill of the salve pasted to his skin as the other man thoroughly examined his ribs, and the scowl had lightened up into that more familiar keen focus. "I don't feel any sign of breakage, thankfully, though we will have to keep an eye on you just to make sure. Pneumonia isn't fun in the middle of the summer."

Maxwell tried to ignore the coldness of the salve, it felt near disgusting on his skin no matter how numbingly soothing it got a few moments after, and instead his pain enduring, slightly addled mind focused on one thing.

" ' _we'?"_

Wilson heaved a sigh at him for that, as if it was the simplest of things to understand, and Maxwell squinted open his eyes just enough to glare at the exasperated look leveled at him.

"Yes, Maxwell, we. I'm not going to be the only one here you know." The man turned away, wiping off his salve stained claws with a set aside cloth. "It's summer, and I can't just devote all my time to you. The camp will end in flames if everyone doesn't do their part."

Well then, that explains it.

Maxwell huffed, a low rattled hiss as he strained his lungs, but the salve did its work and, while the ugly bruises won't fade entirely away that quick, his breathing had evened out more comfortably. Didn't make him feel any better, not at all, but he would have to make do.

"Then I...I suppose I should stop wasting your _precious_ time-" The bite snuck in there, tainted in bitterness, resignation not quite smothering it, and Maxwell struggled trying to haul himself to a stand for a moment, "-and take care of the rest of this so that I may better _serve_ this blasted camp-"

His words snagged in his throat the instant weight shifted to his left leg, a sharp shatter shot of pain that arced up through his nerves and sent his senses out into wobbling smeared darkness-

"-sit right back down, you bloody idiot!"

Wilson's face faded back slowly, a buzzing static numbness that only held for a moment before pitching back into full blown agony, and only vaguely he realized that Wilson had pushed him backwards into laying on the cot. The discomfort of its metal scrap and wooden lumps of a headboard backing dug into his back, his shoulders, though his chest didn't heave with strained aches and more with gasps as the nausea returned back tenfold.

"I swear to whatever science has created for this place, if you've broken your hip again-"

"That was just _once_ -"

"It was more than once, don't lie to me like you do to the others." Wilson pressed him more firmly to the cot, focused face peering at his own for a moment as Maxwell grit his teeth into a snarl and stubbornly ignored the fact that he must look like a wreck by now, pain and shock making him tremble and shiver even as sweat collected to the back of his neck. "I was hoping it wasn't anything too bad, maybe just a sprain, but…"

Maxwell watched him with squinted eyes, the other man carefully handling his legs, pokes and prods and only halting when he tensed up with a stuttered hiss, enough as to spit a few words at him.

"You may have all the knowledge about injuries but you _certainly_ have no regard for the fact that I am in _pain_."

"What, you really think I know everything about this?" Wilson scoffed, shook his head as he started on Maxwell's trousers, and when that didn't elicit a shrill snap of prudishness the more serious nature of the moment caught back up to him. "I can't give you anything unless I know the extent of the damage; I don't want you falling into a coma."

"That would certainly make things easier." Maxwell muttered, closing his eyes and focusing on the frustrated offense of being stripped instead of the more agonizingly encompassing aches and pains. "A swift knock to the head or razor to the throat to speed up the process-"

_"Maxwell."_

_"Wilson."_ Maxwell snapped, brewing anger finally bypassing the thrumming constant pains, "You should know by now I'm right, as if there is any reason to keep an unconscious waste of space around. Far better it would be to use a touchstone then waste the resources, and I'm sure the others would agree!"

"Do you even listen to yourself?" Wilson stopped what he was doing, and the scowl on his face was drawn almost in disgust, a pity to it that made Maxwell bristle up in a snarl. "What, would you have preferred we just left you out in the heat with the beefalo?"

"If your bleeding heart self hadn't been there then that surely would have happened-"

"Don't be so fucking dense, as if I'm the only one who cares whether you live or die!" Wilson's voice snapped, tone rough now in exasperated frustration, and he jabbed a claw in Maxwell's face as he continued on, "It was Wolfgang who had caught sight of you, noticed something was wrong before anyone else! Hell, he was the one to drag you out of that mess! Once you passed out that first time Webber was the one to suggest we carry you, not force you to walk all the way back!"

The former Nightmare King leaned back, shoulders drawn up and snaggle teeth bared in a snarl as Wilson got in his space, and his own internally twisted frustrations were buried under the other man's now voiced logic, firm and sound and very, very blunt.

"Wickerbottom offered to help tend to you, she knows bone breaks better than anyone here, even me! She would've stayed, would've _helped_ you, had you not been a brat and thrown a damn tantrum!"

Maxwell couldn't look anywhere else but the other man's face, that rage mixed thickly with irritated concern and disgusted pity that made his own gut curdle, and he hissed in a breath, let it hiss back out as he glared at the other man, both sets of eyes locked into a stubborn war.

He didn't break eye contact, or at least fought the urge to, but then something in him twisted uncomfortably at the almost disappointed, thickening concern, that ever constant determination in Wilson's eyes, and he finally averted his eyes, a low hiss of a breath escaping him.

"...I am not a child."

"Then stop acting like one." Wilson snapped, a hint of exhaustion in his voice now, a last hard glare and poke to his collarbone from those dull claws, before the other man drew back and set his focus elsewhere.

It was quiet, for a long while after that.

Maxwell only flinched slightly, brief spots of shocked pain as hands went about assessing his leg, but didn't say a word otherwise.

Bitter spite told him his words would just be dismissed. The more hurt part of him didn't want to cause more trouble than he already has.

Turning his head, folding his arms across his aching chest, ignoring the way they trembled, Maxwell's gaze drifted about the tent's small space for a few moments, trying to find a distraction. His eyes landed on his hung up suit jacket over by the entrance - Wickerbottom must have put it there at some point, how polite - and for a moment, as he glared at it, the former Nightmare King pondered on if he should bother asking for it back.

Injured or not, he was not at all comfortable being like this for much longer.

"...It's fractured."

Maxwell blinked, gaze snapping back to the other man as Wilson leaned over his inert leg.

"...what?"

"Fractured, or broken entirely, I can't really tell like this." Wilson carefully wrapped a clawed hand to his ankle, a shifting movement that made Maxwell flinch from shooting pin pricks of pain, and even more so carefully raised his leg up. His other hand reached out to the side, a brief moment as Wilson looked around, before he suddenly had a lopsided, deflated pillow in his hand and he nudged it under Maxwell's knee with a dissatisfied look. "The skin didn't tear, that's why you're not bleeding, but your femur…"

He trailed off, eyes focused and mind obviously twisting and turning.

In the meantime, Maxwell had turned his glare to his own leg and was very stubbornly withholding the darkly humorous sentence _"kill me now"_ , no matter how it lay on the tip of his tongue. 

"Well," he finally said, breaking the silence and earning a side eyed look from Wilson, who obviously did not catch the strained hint of a smirk tugging the corner of his face, "I do hope I don't have to stay in here for too long waiting for it to heal; it might just give me cabin _femur_."

Weak, a bit crooked judging from the sudden drop of Wilsons expression and the more pure, familiar snort of disappointment, a shake of his wild haired head, but then Wilson shot back his own attempt to lighten up the past air.

"Unfortunately, I feel it in my _bones_ that you definitely won't be leaving this tent to- _marrow_."

Just as poorly done, but enough to make Maxwell hiss out a sound that almost resembled a chuckle. The tense air of earlier eased back, not quite faded away but out of sight, out of mind, and the familiarity of doing so when it came to Wilson helped soothe the old man back from feeding the bitter disagreeableness he was still feeling.

"...I do mean it though, Maxwell." Wilson had turned his gaze back to his leg, that focused look back, threaded this time with a fatigued concern. "This isn't going to heal by tomorrow, or the next day. If we had anymore Amulets I'd give you one, but we don't. Leg bone breaks don't...they don't heal fast, if at all."

He heaved a sigh, turning away as he started to look around the tent in silence for a few moments. Maxwell watched him, eyes narrowed, and gnawed at his earlier prattling and how viable it might actually be now that he knew what had happened to him.

A broken leg did not quite spell out a pleasant life in the Constant.

"How long?"

"What?" Wilson straightened up, a nearly unrolled mess of bandages in one hand and a few sticks in another.

"How long will it take to heal?"

Maxwell had turned his gaze up to the tents ceiling, quiet, and Wilson seemed to hesitate a moment as he thought.

"...I've never survived long enough on my own to heal a fractured femur, Maxwell." He paused, though the old man didn't spare a glance at him either way before he continued. "I would hazard a guess around, um. A few months, maybe?"

There was silence, for a few minutes.

"...that would be around next spring, I think."

Maxwell side eyed the other man, arms still crossed tightly about his chest, before looking away again and closing his eyes, letting a strained whistle of a sigh escape him.

His past words seemed to rise in the stuffy air, cooled by thermal stones yet broiling outside, and something dark and twisted in his chest shivered at the thought. A broken leg, out of commission for months, a few seasons worth of time, and for what?

Better the touchstone, Maxwell vaguely recognized, though he did not voice it outloud. Squandering precious supplies while he sat here doing nothing, contributing in no way whatsoever to the camp, even more of a freeloader than he has already been accused of…

It did not sit well on him, curdling bitterness bubbling under the ambient aches and pains.

Then movement caught his attention, eyes flashing open as weight draped atop his chest and arms-

Wilson scraped his dull claws together, frown on his face, eyes deep in far away thought as Maxwell recognized his suit jacket, though the other man did lend a hand in sitting him up carefully and helped slip the clothing back on. Without his undergarments it looked loose on his bony shoulders, wrinkled and stained dirty, but it was better than nothing.

As if in afterthought, Wilson grabbed another thin blanket from underneath the cot and draped it over his waist and abdomen; his leg was still open to view, but otherwise the old man was much more covered now than before.

It helped settle the more prickling alert offense, at the very least, though Maxwell made do with a huffed low, nearly silent "thank you", which Wilson only answered by giving him a small, polite nod.

The grimy feeling of the salve all about his chest, the faint pains and the even sharper thin shots of nerves from his leg to hip to spine, it all compounded together in a deeply unpleasant way-

But Wilson patted him on the shoulder, tired, sweat exhausted face drawn low in a fatigued lopsided smile, and his earlier words rang enough in Maxwells ears to make it just a hint more bearable.

"I'll make you a splint, since there's not much more I can do otherwise." Wilson turned away, back to gathering up the thick silk bandaging and thicker set sticks, and there was discomforting deep pain where he set his clammy palm and prickling dull claws, but it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been.

 _I could've been gored,_ Maxwell reminded himself, and while that was not a pretty picture set in mind it still made him huff at the dark irony of it all.

"You'll stay in here and rest, and when you can get your feet underneath you I'll have someone start getting you to practice walking. Some physical therapy will be needed, once the bone sets."

"Of course. Do what you believe will work out, I _certainly_ don't mind." There was sarcasm in his voice, a thick disbelieving frustration, but even as Maxwell rolled his eyes, idle fingers plucking at his worn down suit sleeves, he supposed he should allow himself to be more grateful.

As Wilson went about preparing his leg, the old former Nightmare King heaved a strained, long suffering sigh.

Just his luck, to fracture a femur and live to tell the pitiful tale.

***

A gust of hot air burst into the tent, brought on by the opened tent door flap before the sharp heated light darkened once more.

"Oh damn, it's hot in here."

"Oh, are you sure?" Maxwell fought the urge to roll his eyes, instead aiming a sluggish glare over at the woman who had just invaded the med tents space. "I hadn't noticed."

"...Welp, guess Wilson's right about your old ass not dying anytime soon." Willow balanced a few things in her arms, a heavy lumpy backpack in one and the other holding something else, too dark for the old man to recognize, and she dropped the pack with a heavy thump and huffing blown raspberry. She didn't at all look harried by the heat, her dark hair not even slicked down, no hint of wilting whatsoever - he supposed that shouldn't have been a surprise, and yet he still had that horrid little shot of envy pass through him. "You're still a grumpy dickhead. Maybe I should just leave ya to cook in here, hm?"

That got her an even worse glare, though the former Nightmare King didn't make any attempt to sit himself up. He didn't quite know if he even could; it's been heating up since morning, an oven that he had to deal with as he listened to the sounds of the others doing their business about camp, and no matter the snaking irritation and frustration and pure discomfort as if he'd let himself go _low_ enough to beg anyone for aid.

He can deal with the hot tent, damn it, and if no one wanted to check on him so much the better.

...it was made all the worse, by the fact that his leg itched and he couldn't even relieve that with this blasted cast on.

A few days after the incident and it was already terrible; his luck must be turning foul, some sort of twisted karma, though Maxwell was not going to let himself think about it. Stewing in hot, sweaty and slightly dehydrated agitation seemed more appealing.

At one point, he had even wondered if the lot of them were just going to let him die like this instead. A bit delirious, the heat was addling, but now the firestarter was here being irritating and rude and Maxwell just did not want to deal with that.

So he closed his eyes, grit his jaw, and ignored her.

"...look, I'm not gonna do that, alright? Wilson made me promise I'd check on ya and yeah, maaaybe it's been a bit longer than I told him I'd duck in, but hey, I'm here now aren't I?" She was fiddling around, and the low thumps of heavy weight hitting the ground made Maxwell squint open his eyes in time to see the dark blue frozen lumps of thermal stones get tossed around the tent. "Kinda surprised you _didn't_ cook in here, I didn't know the tent would be this hot."

"Unfortunate, isn't it." 

"Pfff, yeah, with your lazy butt sitting it up in here."

She didn't seem to notice, or perhaps more accurately care, at his lack of tone, instead dumping the last of the thermal stones out of the now considerably empty pack and kicking them around for a moment. When she turned back towards him her crooked lips were pulled into something similar to a pout, and she had to brush the stray hair from her eyes as she peered at him for a moment.

"...Damn, you look like shit. Maybe you did get a bit cooked."

This time Maxwell did roll his eyes, though making a comeback was slow going, even with the thermal stones this heat was really wearing on him, but then Willow suddenly thrust her hand forward, holding out the other object she had brought with her.

"Here."

He blinked, stared at the clay cup in her hands for a few seconds before his brow drew low and he squinted back up at her.

"...Will I regret asking what _that_ is?"

"Just drink it, you dumb old fart." She shook her hand at him, and the greenish liquid inside the cup moved thick and sluggish and really quite disgustingly. "You lose the use of your arms or what? Take it before I dump it on ya an' ruin your stupid suit."

It took longer than either of them wanted for Maxwell to push himself up, a slight shift to lean back against the hard headboard of the cot, and his movements did make him wince when his leg shifted, a low hiss as he swallowed the pain and pushed it aside. The heat had made him addled, and sluggishly slow.

As well as feeling very, very disgusted, sticky with sweat and stuffy, heavy hot air, but at the very least when the cots sheet peeled from his limp suit jacket there was the thermal stone's cooler air to help greet it.

Willow made a face, pulled and mean, but her eyes didn't betray any sense of judgement, only the frustrated dislike of being around someone she had no positive relation to. 

She did help, however, fumbling for one of his hands and stuffing the clay cup into his weak fingers, and she held them there till he got his own strength back enough to shake loose her touch.

The discomfort of it was forgotten the instant Maxwell peered a narrow look at the cup's contents, a cool wafting scent from it enough to make his shallow wheezed breaths go a bit easier.

"Warly made some of that gross asparagus stuff for everyone and I didn't wanna drink it, so when I remembered I was supposed to check up on ya…" She shrugged, rocked back on her heels and trying to look entirely nonchalant from the entire experience. "Better than wasting it or anything, I thought."

Maxwell side eyed her, didn't make any sort of answer till he had tipped the cup up and took a shaky, small sip, though the woman did snort out a laugh as he pulled a face.

"Yeah, it's gross, that's why I gave it to you." 

Willow scooted back, looked around a moment before wrangling a crooked stool over to sit on, wide and very unlady like as she stomped her feet in almost nervous energy for a moment. When she talked it was a ramble, light and not quite looking him in the eye.

"I mean, you're gross, that stuff's gross; perfect fit, ya know? Wilson had put those stones in the ice box earlier, I think this morning or something? Said that I needed to put 'em in here to help regulate the temperature, make sure you didn't get fucked up by the heat or anything-"

"Where is he?"

Willow quieted a moment, a flash of irritation lighting her face as her cheeks puffed, a narrow glint to her eyes, but Maxwell was more focused on slowly getting down the asparagazpacho, thick and slimy and all vegetable, cool and soothing to his dry throat. 

"...He went down into the caves, was helping Wx78 with somethin' or other. I tried asking him but he just wanted me to check up on ya, so.." Willow tossed up her hands, agitation making her movements short and voice clipped, still rambling, still threaded with false friendliness. "Don't know why he didn't stick around to watch you himself! Made me do it, as if I wanna waste my time watchin' your wrinkled old ass."

Maxwell ignored her, and the thermal stones combined with finally having something to drink has helped stabilize him somewhat, a strength returning as the chill settled back to his blood, chased off the summers threatening heat. The tent air itself was almost pleasant now, and his dark eyes finally looked back to the young woman still bothering to give him her presence.

Her face was pouted again, eyes low and looking in deep, frustrated thought, ash smeared fingers tapping to the stools curbed edge as she stomped her heels against the ground, methodic and in patterns only she knew.

It was getting fairly obvious, how irate she was, but a hint harder figuring out the _why_.

Maxwell set the cup in his lap, the hard jut of the headboard pressing uncomfortably to his spine, the sweaty heat of the cast on his leg not at all improving his mood, but he still spoke up as the realization dawned on him.

"...Why did you give me this?"

His tone wasn't accusing, more a hint confused as he narrowed a look at her, an almost scowl, but Willow threw up her hands with a huff, the frustration coming off in almost heated waves.

"I already told you, cause I didn't wanna waste it! It wouldn't be nice to let Warlys cookin' rot in the ice box, so I had to find _someone_ to give it to, and then I remembered you and how I forgot you were stuck in a hot tent all day with a busted up leg so-!"

She flapped her hands, gnashed her teeth, before Willow shook her head and leapt up, looking a hint wild and agitated as she bore a snarl at him.

Maxwell blinked at her, face neutral, eyes dark and expressionless, and she glared at him for a moment before seeming to come to her senses.

"Don't know why I thought to be nice or anything, cause I sure as hell don't care!" She swung around, booted a thermal stone away from her to roll into a chest set to the side of the tent, and did not look at him whatsoever. "Hope ya like that gross shit, cause I didn't want it, nope, you can have it-"

Maxwell interrupted her before her voice rose anymore, already going shrill and teetering on that edge of stability, her feelings on most matters relating to him were well known and for the most part he avoided interacting with her long due to some fairly good reasons, but…

The clay cup in his hands was still cold, helped drive the heat from his worn gloves, and the chill of the dish, liquid as it had been, was already settled in his gut well enough to ease his earlier unpleasant experience.

She certainly had no obligation to give it to him, he knew.

"Thank you, Willow."

The woman snapped her mouth shut, voice cut for a few moments, and Maxwell eyed her shaking shoulders before looking away, leaning back a bit more as he tried to relax his body back into the cot. Staying here, unable to get up, even if only a few days have passed, was wearing him thin, but he supposed he should be grateful it wasn't worse.

And, that he wasn't going to be left in here to die a slow, heated death.

"Fuckin', fine. Whatever." Willow spat out, voice a hint shaky and undecided, some sort of internal debate she still hasn't found a winner for, before she proceeded to storm out of the tent.

But, not before she huffed back over her shoulder, a hint of strain as she paused, hesitated-

"Don't tell Wilson I forgot ya for so long, alright? Didn't want to cook you like that, just sort of, forgot about it-"

"Water under the bridge." Maxwell hummed, eyes already closed, finally able to relax down without that horrid heat and sweating tangling to his mind, able to just lay still and not suffer mild heat stroke. His own voice was schooled, a perfect stand still to keep even ground underneath them both, and he could hear when the woman hissed out a fiery puff of an exhale. "Don't mention me thanking you, and I will ensure I say nothing to Higgsbury."

Willow wobbled by the tent door, he didn't even have to look to see her dislike and discomfort so plain on her face, before she shook her head, heaved a mean sigh.

"Great, yeah...yep." She paused again, this time less tense and irritated, more halted, a lack of confidence layered with false strength. "I'll be around in another few hours, make sure the stones don't get hot enough to cook you through...again."

She hesitated, as if not knowing whether she should say more, before with a last puffing raspberry the young woman swung away and left the former Nightmare King alone in his tent.

He did keep his word; later, when she came back and wordlessly handed him a clay bowl of cold meatballs and a single melonsicle, he followed her lead and made no comment.

If, alone and staring up at the ceiling of the tent in absolute boredom, Maxwell let himself dwell on Willow's seemingly random, unwarranted acts of vague kindness, it was not something he brought up with her.

She obviously did not wish to speak of it anyhow - and he very much agreed.

***

It had been the baying that had woken him up, from a light, restless sleep. Dreamless, thankfully, but when Maxwell squinted open his eyes as he groggily sat up from the cot, leaning against the headboard, it had only taken a briefly foggy moment before he recognized what he was hearing.

And then the whole tent shuddered as a bristling snout tore its way in, jaws agape and blown wide eyes showing their whites, a great hound shoving its way through with only one express purpose.

It froze as it caught sight of him, Maxwell blinking blurrily as it slowly dawned on him that this thing and its ilk must have gotten _through_ the gated walls somehow to get here, a bit caught up in the sluggishness of having just been jolted awake and only just now having that thin shot of realization that it _will kill him-_

It lurched forward, a snarling whine as it shoved the tents flap door out of the way, grand bulk bunched in a tense crouch before leaping, Maxwell belatedly leaning backwards against the tents more solidified wall and too surprised to even wince at the shock of pain lacing up his leg as those jaws charged straight at him-

And then the hound dropped dead, a dull thump as its body collapsed right before the cot and him, jaws going loose and thick tongue lolling out as its eyes rolled back. A spear was lodged to the back of its neck, rising from matted greasy hackles, and Maxwell stared as the woman behind its death took a step around it, brought a hand up, and easily yanked the weapon out of it with a brief burst of foul lavender blood.

She didn't say anything, only a hardened look that glanced over him, before the yipping of more hounds outside drew her attention away and Wigfrid turned, braided hair twisting with her, and leapt out of the tent with a battlecry.

Maxwell sat there, for a few moments, still a bit stunned from the sudden chain of events, before the buzzing of flies about the hounds corpse drew him back into the present. Taking a deep breath, air heated and already turning foul, he finally turned a scowl down at the dead creature, this massive foul corpse of flesh and bone and fur, and its empty dead eyes seemed to stare accusingly back at him, lopsided and sagged down in death.

It was very disgusting, the stench of it rising as the heat from outside crept in from the half torn tent entrance, a sliver of too bright, too hot sunlight piercing through, and here he was, unable to do a blasted thing about it.

Maxwell's glare turned elsewhere, to the cast on his leg, a sore throbbing from how he had accidentally twisted it, and the heat already flooding his tent. This had not been a kind awakening whatsoever.

Eventually, as the growls and snarls out in the camp went quiet, silenced by spear point and the frequent shouted cries and words of shouted song language, Maxwell found that sitting here, eyes shut tight and pulsing ache still rising from his leg, was not doing him any good.

For all he knew, the hounds could have won the fight! Not everyone was in camp at the moment, he hadn't been keeping track, and at the height of deep summer they certainly wouldn't be lingering around doing nothing. The former Nightmare King grumbled to himself as he played with the idea of him being the only damn survivor because he was stuck up in a tent with a dead dog.

Speaking of which, its stink was getting worse.

Maxwell eyed it, irritable, already too hot from the heat, ignoring that sore pain caught about his leg and climbing his hip now, focusing entirely upon his agitation.

He took one glance at his leg, snarl tugging on his face in displeasure, but it's been a few weeks now, hot summer weeks. It's had enough time, Wilson had mentioned something a few days ago about how well his progress has been, the cast was fairly sturdy as it was, so Maxwell figured it was fine.

As it turned out, he had been completely and totally wrong. Even the movement of trying to swing his legs down from the cot winded him, the throbbing ache growing hot and sharp enough to make him wince down and go still for a few minutes, but then a particularly loud, obnoxious fly started to buzz about the hounds disgusting snout, much too close to him, so the old man grit his jaw and pulled himself together.

He had a _cast_ , after all, it wasn't as if he'd put all his weight on the broken bone, or fractured, Wilson still hadn't figured it out and Maxwell was not interest in nettling him on the issue, especially since 'surgery' of all things was mentioned once and the other man had gotten that sharp brightened look in his eyes before he started to ramble about his experience, which had very quickly been shut down when Maxwell had growled a solid 'No' at him as answer, as if _surgery_ was even possible out here-

And then his frail strength, weakened by near a month with bed rest, went out on him just as he felt he had a foothold, weight to his good leg and hands finally loosening from the cots baseboard. It was a wonder he hadn't collapsed upon the hounds carcass, stinking buzzing flies rising in a wafted cloud as the former Nightmare King hissed out a sharp wheeze of pain and surprise as he went down.

His leg didn't twist, thankfully, but the pain had worsened and now he was sitting on the ground, between cot and a dead dogs maw, and Maxwell found he could do little more than pant and tremble and focus wholeheartedly on how much he _hated everything._

Luckily for him, someone checked the tent only a few minutes later.

Unluckily for him, when Maxwell rose his blurry gaze and found pale, masked eyes staring at him from the entrance, an even paler faint afterimage drifting above keeping the same eye contact.

His niece blinked, a brief flash of something that might have been shocked surprise, before Abigail hummed a low, silent groan of a deathly sound, dragging and deep before fading too far for human ears to understand. Her sister, however, did, and Maxwell watched her with narrowed eyes and a losing battle to the waves of heated pain as Wendy turned her head, leaned out of the tent, and called out.

"Wigfrid, may I request your aid once more?"

The viking woman's response didn't even take half a moment, the sound of hauled hound corpses dumped down and the jogging of heavy armor and still heaved, battle excited breaths, before there was a shadow from the outside and Wigfrids voice came booming through.

"Öf cöurse, Wendy! Ask me öf anything, be nöt afraid öf any request. Yöur are my charge för the evening, after all-"

The womans loud voice dropped when she ducked her head in, a quick glance around before her eyes landed on Maxwell, and his scowl deepened as he glared at her, words already rising as the frustration boiled upwards-

"My dear uncle has taken a fall, and I wish to know if you can put him back together again."

The former Nightmare King hissed, mouth opening as anger overtook the bare beginnings of embarrassment and even more nagging agony, caught between the damn cot he's laid in for days and a face full of dead dog and its already thick cloud of flies, but he couldn't even get a word out before Wigfrid entered the tent, ducked around the hounds corpse, and easily scooped him up with no fanfare whatsoever.

It made him snap his jaws, how fast it happened, the ground out from under him and the viking woman's strength easily hauling him up with no trouble, and his hands scrambled uselessly around before he was unceremoniously dumped upon the cot once more.

"What would have happened had I not checked in, uncle? The biting flies might not have distinguished you so easily from the dead." Wendy had circled around the dogs corpse as well, hands clasped as her sister hovered above her, humming low and silent. "It would have been tragic, would I have found you far too late. What, may I ask, dear uncle, were you thinking?"

There was well masked sarcasm in there, a familiar tone Maxwell himself has uttered before, but he didn't get to formulate an answer before Wigfrid was lifting his casted leg up, a sharp jolted spike of pain up his hip and spine that made him grit his teeth with a stuttered wheeze.

Surprisingly, the viking woman did not handle him roughly from there, only a careful focus as she set his leg angled back up with a few pillows underneath, and her face was drawn neutral, brow low and hardened as she worked. Wendy, for her part, stood off to the side, unmoving, silent, and still waiting for that answer as she stared her uncle down.

Eventually he had to say something, Abigail had begun the staring as well, her glowing ethereal form pulsing with faint spirit light, a slight twist of plasma as a vague form, the exact height of her sister, solidified down, and as Wigfrid finished up adjusting his arrangements to be surprisingly comfortable the old former Nightmare King found that ignoring the lot of them might not be in his best interest.

"...I did not wish to share my company with a _dead animal_." He sniffed, arms folded over his chest as his voice turned scathing, glare turning to settle on the viking woman as she stepped back from him. "It was starting to stink, so I assumed I was in my right to remove myself from its presence."

As he talked Wigfrid had gone back to the aforementioned hound, the burst of buzzing fly activity at her approach whipping up the stench as the insects went into a frenzy, but as she easily hauled up its front paws, gaping, drool and blood soaked mouth limp as it dragged on the ground, all Wendy did was take a few steps back, icy stare still set on her uncle.

"The hounds were being removed, one by one, and you needn't have waited long." Wendy tilted her head, Abigail mimicking her in turn. "Had you patience, then you wouldn't have fallen."

Maxwell snorted, face pulled into a sneer as he watched Wigfrid drag the hounds corpse out of the tent, but it quickly fell away into a heavy sigh. 

"I am patient enough." He angled his gaze back to his leg, to the cast of spider silk bandaging and refined wood. "This, however, has been trying me."

Wendy drifted closer, mask still set, hands still clasped, but her wide eyes looked to his healing injury with an odd, unrecognizable blankness that Maxwell could not decipher. The frail glow of Abigail hummed as she followed her sister, the faint impression of eyes and face and wild ethereal hair, dimmer than an initial summoning, and Maxwell eyed her with a frown before looking away as she raised her head to meet his eyes.

Ironically, his dead niece was much easier to understand than his living one, but the both of them seemed a bit off put at the moment.

"Does it hurt?"

"Hm?" Maxwell blinked at the girl, Wendy not sparing him a glance, but her staring did not waver.

"A broken bone, a crippled limb; does it pain you?"

"...Not often. It is but a minor inconvenience, that unfortunately needs time to go away."

"I've never broken a bone before." Wendy stared intently at his cast, though Abigail had risen up a bit, solid form dissipating into floating ethereal lights, drifting and ghosting around her sister. "Not in the world before this one."

The ghost hummed suddenly, low and dragging, oozing sound through the air and making Wendy finally look up and turn her head, listening.

"I was more careful than my sister. I did not wish to fall."

Maxwell was quiet, listening to her words with his arms crossed and feeling faintly nauseated, displeased, and rather uncomfortable, but no matter his own particular dislikes the presence of his niece did take priority. 

Their connection to each other was strained, and not just by his unfamiliarity with her, the space and time separating him from her and her family - Maxwell could hardly remember the last time he had sent a letter to Jack, after all, or recieved one in which they hadn't devolved into arguing, blaming, and name calling - but it was made perhaps even worse within a camp together, surrounded by the others.

...Wickerbottom had made a comment on it, farther back than now-

_"You give her the bare minimum and nothing more. Do you not see why that is wrong?"_

"...This injury is my own fault, not chance or accident. My own karmic fate, if you wish to think of it like that." Maxwell's gloved hands tapped on his crossed arms, a distracted movement as he watched his nieces. "Perhaps it would be better, to believe such a thing."

"Fate does not exist." Wendy stated matter of factly, a sharp curb to her tone, and she turned away from him, Abigail quiet and solemn above her. "Only our choices. I did not want to break, so I did not."

Outside the tent all three could hear Wigfrid as she tussled with dragging the hound bodies out of the camp's walls, her huffs and, now much quieter, murmurs of self encouragement. His dead niece watched him, silent and ethereal, while his living kept her back to him, and for a few moments it was silent.

Maxwell thought, for that space of time, and finally voiced a softer rebuttal out loud.

"...I am sure Abigail did not wish to either."

He could see her shoulders tense, a bristling to the air, but Maxwell continued on anyway, not having finished. "As I said, this was my fault. If fate had no play in it, then my own choice to put myself into danger is the core of the issue. At the time I had thought myself safer, and as you can see, I was not."

The former Nightmare King heaved a sigh, feeling more worn down now, the background throbbing pain that had migrated to his hip warm and sore and painful. 

"...There are very few similarities to be drawn between each other, Wendy; do not waste your time trying."

Wendy was silent, the hostility fading as her sister drifted low, keeping to her back, as if a makeshift barrier between her sister and her uncle.

Just outside, all three could hear Wigfrid as she started to approach the tent once more, but just before she could enter Maxwell caught Wendy's quiet voice as she murmured something low and somber.

"...My sister thought she was safe too."

He did not have time to react, or even fully process those words; Wigfrid practically burst in with her arms full, a flash of the summer evenings warm light before the tent flap fell back behind her, and even with the evidence of sweat and dirt and crusted purple foul blood on her, stray clumps of hound fur stuck to her armor, the woman's demeanor seemed to have entirely shifted.

"All is well nöw, is it nöt? Nö möre beasts tö attract swarming insects, nö möre föul stench to öffend the sensitive of nöses; the battle has been wön, serpent öf Löki, and nö new wöunds have cursed yöu!"

Maxwell's face curled into a snarl, prickling as he narrowed his eyes at her offhanded comments, but whatever bitter grudging he was sure he recognized seemed to be entirely ignored when the woman rounded around the tent and handed off a plate to Wendy and him. Not even a hint of hostility was on her face any longer, a more open, familiar smile as she then found a stool for his niece, before Wigfrid proceeded to have a seat right down on the ground, next to the splattered puddle of lavender hounds blood.

Wendy hummed her thanks, Abigail cooing quietly as she examined her sister's plate of what appeared to be a sandwich, great green webbed feet sticking out from the sides.

"...it is lunch time?"

"Past time, Wendy! The höunds of Hel töök much öf öur day; the öthers will be heading höme söön, but nöt söön enöugh för bellys hungry after a wörthy battle!"

Maxwell glowered at his own plate, the limpid looking sandwich and lackluster smooth frog legs laid within, but as his niece started to eat without delay, Wigfrid already devouring her lunch share with gusto, the old man rolled his eyes and decided to not look the gift horse in the mouth.

At least it wasn't more cold meatballs, as Wilson was more likely to give him at the end of the day.

The frog legs crunched, bones cooked brittle and meat fairly flavorless, but the faint traces of heat kicked in shortly afterwards; the added frozen mushrooms and carrots seemed to help smooth it down, however, and no matter how irritable and uncomfortable today has been, Maxwell can admit that having something for lunch that was more filling than trail mix and leftover meatballs at breakfast really did seem to ease away his agitation.

Still, a bit odd to be dining with these two willingly giving him their company.

Wigfrid finished first, setting aside her plate with a satisfied huff, and then turning a hard look to the drying thick puddle of hound blood on the ground. 

"I shall clean yöur quarters later tönight, wöunded demön. It wöuld nöt dö tö leave this unclean."

Maxwell almost choked on a spare frog bone at that, huffing up a ragged cough that devolved into a bit of a fit for a moment as he had to lean forward and catch his breath. Both of them were staring at him by then, though his niece with that rather familiar disinterested intrigue of waiting to watch someone's death throes and Wigfrid instead having her brows raised high, a thin, oddly placed thread of concern somehow stringing along her face. 

The viking woman had even stood up, hovered near him a moment, and Maxwell had to hurriedly wave her away before she made an assumption and tried to knock some sense into him, clearing his throat and then handing off the rest of the horrid froggle bunwich, roughly less than half at the very least, back to her on the clay plate. His hands only trembled minutely, and setting back the mask of a neutral sneer to his face felt the most natural route in answering her unasked, very much _unwanted_ questioning. 

"While I certainly… _appreciate_ your goodwill so far, I must remind you that I will be indisposed for an uncertain amount of time and cannot make any effort to…" he trailed for a moment, gaze flashing away to glare at the tents opposing wall, thankfully unblemished by the hounds intrusion earlier, before darting back to pull a sneer at the viking woman as she took the plate from him. "...to _repay_ back anything that you may think I owe." 

A bitter thread had seeped into his tone, turning it foul and nagging, but Wigfrid only blinked at him, face usually hardened and defensive when facing him now only somewhat open, the vaguest of polite concern there-

 _-for some unfathomable reason_ , the Nightmare King thought, and it only made him feel even more displeased with how this entire day was going.

...Briefly, very briefly, Wilson's early words from weeks ago came to mind, but Maxwell was already in mild discomfort and still stubbornly ignoring the flare ups of pain that had started to bloom to his spine, so instead of pondering on it he grit his teeth into a snarl, folded his arms across his chest, and tensed his shoulders as he _glared._

Wigfrid, however, seemed to not be fazed in the slightest.

"Ah, dö nöt wörry spawn öf Löki. There is nöthing öf which I, ör any öther here, will ask öf yöu, and nöt with the state yöu are in nöw! What warriör öf the encampment wöuld I be, tö require debt fröm my charges?" She shook her head, huffed as she turned away and collected her own plate, then Wendys as the girl handed it over without a word. "Demön yöu may be, Maxwell, but yöu are an injured elder within safety's wööden walls. Yöu require prötectiön, and aid."

The viking woman had made her way back to the entrance of the tent, her words holding Maxwells tongue at a standstill as he stared at her, bewildered, confused, and a hint dizzily panicked, a frustration simmering underneath it, but then Wigfrid turned to look at him, really give him a thorough, examining gaze as he sat there, crippled and in pain and so very much _trapped._

"Dö yöu think me sö pöörly, tö treat öne öf öur öwn, wöunded and needing helping hands tö heal, as if lööse luggage?" She actually went so far as to _frown_ at him, a thick sense of disappointment that had him even more addled than before, blinking blankly at her as she raised up the flap of the tent, a gesture of her head seeming to mean something to Wendy as his niece stood up from the stool, Abigail following behind her as she moved. "Yöu have tricked yöurself, sö twisted yöu have becöme, if yöu think such thöughts."

There was a pause, a few seconds of quiet as Wendy gave him a brief glance, slow and methodical and heavy, expressionless, before both girls, living and dead, ducked under Wigfrids arm and exited the tent entirely. The viking woman, on the other hand, waiting a few beats of silence, let the door fall, shuttering the hot warmed air of evening summer once more back outside.

Maxwell couldn't help but tense at that, shoulders drawing tight as he stared at her and she in turn at him; alone with the woman now, again, and knowing from experience what such a situation can do to him, the former Nightmare King held a look of alert hostility about him, his best, and only, defense as of now. The reality of it was plainly telling him he had nothing to fear, but something else, something much like memory and knocking reminders of his hated past, grew shrill and wire thin at the implication of being alone with such a dangerous, grudge filled woman.

He had, like so many others, taken her from her life when she had only asked for a bit of help. 

And, just like everyone else here, she has suffered far worse fates than death - if she so chose to bare her revenge, as she has in the past, then Maxwell saw no reason to blame her for it.

Didn't mean he liked it, or was agreeable or even mildly accepting of his own fate though.

But, this time, for one reason or another, Wigfrids face had no trace of violent, trauma memory remembrance, no hint of frustrated, pain filled grudging that needed to be fulfilled. Instead, falling a bit hardened with seriousness, the viking woman, now so ingrained into her role there was no telling what had once been script and what had once been common modern thought, was looking at him with the most clear cut, protective expression he has ever seen her give him.

"Dö nöt think öf this as förgiveness, ör plain pity. Yöu have earned nö such thing fröm me." Her firm voice did not soften, but there was a severe lack of hostility in her as Wigfrid fixed him with a look he found very, very hard to read, and even harder to understand. 

A sigh escaped her, after a beat of silence, and yet her fierce expression gave a more general aura, not a distinct wish for bloodshed to his person; for a rather insane moment, Maxwell correctly gauged this to be somehow protective _of_ him, not _against_.

"Yöu are a part öf here, demön, and thus I lend a hand tö yöu when yöu are in need, such as nöw. Yöur death will nöt find yöu under my watch, and yöu shall nöt live in disrespect either; I will nöt allöw such a thing tö an elder öf the family, nö matter their standing."

She then stopped, paused, her gaze looking away as the silence filled in the odd, indescribable air between them that Maxwell was still trying to parse through, or, hell, even catch up with, before the viking woman shook her head with finality.

"I will be back. Yöur lödgings need cleaning, wöunds tended; dö nöt wörry, ör try tö handle by yöurself, för I will nöt be löng."

Without another word Wigfrid turned, flipped open the tent entrance, splashes of evening sunlight painting the air within, before darkening once more as she left him to himself.

The former Nightmare King sat there, the distinct feeling of absurd confusion still thick in his mind, and he almost couldn't wrap his mind around it, the one woman who hated him nearly as much as the Constant's Queen herself for all that he has taken from her-

-telling him that she saw him as part of the camp, as, what, _family_?

 _What family?!_ A distinctly bitter, spiteful part of him wanted to spit out, twisted sharp and thorny with shadow influence and past traumas, self inflicted and otherwise, but before his thoughts could descend into a spiral of distinct hatred something else rose up to combat this.

_"Don't be so fucking dense, as if I'm the only one who cares whether you live or die!"_

Maxwell laid back against the cots headboard, staring up at the ceiling, and even later, when Wigfrid came back in, his niece dutifully right behind her with thermal stones and tillweed salves and even a few charred pieces of mandrake root to boot, the former old Nightmare King found himself wondering when this had changed, and _why._

**Author's Note:**

> ...the aka summary idea was 'Maxwell gets hurt, pulls a surprised pikachu when the people around him actually care'.
> 
> Edit: I saw a horrible error due to html shenanigans and have now fixed it, hopefully there aren't any more in there v~v


End file.
